


The Path to Scarif - WIP

by chibiMuffin999



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-24 10:32:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9719012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibiMuffin999/pseuds/chibiMuffin999
Summary: Baze Malbus and Chirrut Imwe's history together leading up to Rogue One - from the time they meet through the end of their lives.(While this will -probably- not contain any sex scenes, there will be some physical/emotional intimacy herein, so prepare yourself now if that is going to be an issue for you.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a WIP story at the moment. I'll be editing and updating simultaneously, so bits of the story may change. The final version wil go up later, once this version is finished and polished up.  
> Comments and feedback are welcome, but please don't get too fixated on what's officially canon and what's not. Not everything will be canon.  
> This is based on my (casual fan) knowledge of the Star Wars universe and watching Rogue One. I know it's not going to match up 100%, and I'm ok with that. If you're not, turn back now, (or at least hush up about it) :D

They are still children when the end of the world truly begins, though they will not feel the effects of it for many years to come.

They are only children, when the Jedi Master, Qui-gon Jin, stumbles upon a Force-gifted slave boy on Tatooine - and in rescuing him from that fate; inadvertently seals the galaxy’s instead.

 

Two boys -who will one day be the last Guardians of the Whills- unknowingly grow up in the shadow of the war that will shatter their quiet temple life.

The war _will_ come to Jedha, one day soon.

  
...But not today.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet one half of our story.
> 
> **************************************

Baze Malbus is sixteen, and in his last years of training to be a temple guardian.

His is the path of the warrior. The one best suited to those who feel the Force, but have neither the sensitivity, nor the patience for its study.  
  
Monks study. Baze is no monk.

He has grown tall and sturdy in his years here; baked a dark tan by the searing desert sun of Jedha. Dense cords of muscle are making an appearance across slowly widening shoulders, and rippling their way up his back. He’s probably five stone heavier than most of the other apprentices in his year, and he’s ruthless at using this to his advantage in training matches.

The dry, stifling heat of high summer has turned his already thick and wild hair into an unruly mane that simply refuses to be tamed. After several failed attempts at subduing it, he finally settles for tying up the fronts in tight, sturdy leather ties; wrapping around and around them, until they finally admit defeat and lie down flat. The rest he lets fall where it will, in a single wild mass down his back. It is mercifully out of his eyes, at least, so he chooses to leave well enough alone.

Last year's thin wisps of peach-fuzz are beginning to turn into something visible on his chin, at last, and his voice no longer cracks and breaks at in-opportune times. Stubbornly lingering hints of rounded cheeks and too-soft features are all that betray his real age.

His most notable feature - the thing that stands about him the most - is that his eyes are far older than he is.  
They are dark and keen, weighed down with the kind of heavy shadows that soldiers bring home from war. Where these shadows come from, only Baze himself knows for sure.    
He won't speak of anything that happened before he came here.

 

One day, when he’s older, he’ll be a warrior of the Force and a defender of all who reside here. Master To’un says that this is his destiny: as clear to see as the nose on his face.  
  
_Defender. Warrior._  
  
He likes the sound of these words. Likes the path that they spread out before him.  
Likes having a path at all.

Baze is eager to start down his path; to leave childhood behind. It is more than impatience that drives him.

Baze was not always strong and thriving, as he is now…    
He was not always- … Well, he has never been what he could truly call - _happy-_ … But he is damned near _euphoric_ compared to the days before he first stepped through the temple gates.  
  
That was eleven years ago.  
  
He was a shivering, skinny orphan, then.  
His parents had been killed only days ago, and some kind stranger had seen potential in him and delivered him to the Guardians of the Whills as a potential apprentice. He honestly doesn’t even know who his savior was anymore - if he ever did.  
The details blur from that time in his life, and he has no real desire to clarify them. Why dwell on what was, when what will be lies before you?

Baze didn’t speak a word for a long time after he arrived. For a while the Masters weren’t sure he even could. He had the light of the Force in him, though, and that had opened their doors to him. The rest would come with time.  
At first he would nod, point, shake his head, or occasionally mime when he wanted to communicate. Eventually he progressed to ‘yes’ ‘no’ and even ‘please’.  
But it was Master Ona who finally coaxed a full sentence out of him, months after he was placed in her care.

Master Ona was once the chief caretaker for the children too young to be apprenticed. She’d taken a special interest in Baze right away, and even nicknamed him ‘my little old man’, since he was always serious and never seemed interested in playing, laughing, or really even interacting with the other younglings. She was always trying, however unsuccessfully, to coax a smile out of him.  

* * *

 _“_ Children ought not to be so serious _”_ , Ona had teased him lightly one afternoon when he was six years old, as they walked the meticulously tended temple gardens together. It was late summer then, tipping toward autumn - and still wiltingly hot - even beneath the heavy shade of the fruit trees.  
Water misted endlessly over the plants from unseen irrigators, dampening the thirsty ground and mercifully cooling their burning feet as they passed.    
  
Baze distractedly noticed the Master Gardner down a fork in the path as they passed, briefly visible battling a thorny vine that refused to stay clear of the walkways, before he was swallowed up by a hedge of io berries and lost to view.  
Somewhere in another bit of the garden, one of the garden apprentices was rummaging through the tool shed in search of a special trowel, muttering irritably about people not putting things back where they belonged.  He thought he could hear the distinctive rasp of another raking out the dead leaves beneath the melon trees.  
Especially in a place like Jedha, it was a great deal of work to sustain the vivid green oasis that fed the temple. 

Baze had no particular opinion on what children ought to do, so he said nothing and instead dutifully trudged along beside her, in silence as usual.

Master Ona chose not to notice. Instead, she busied herself in illicitly harvesting a small feast from the various trees that they passed, the branches dense and heavy with ripe fruit.  
Handfuls of the ill-gotten snacks vanished without comment into the folds of her robes.  
  
Ona waited patiently until they rounded a bend in the path and were far away from either the Master Gardener or any of his apprentices, before reaching into one voluminous sleeve and coming up with a spiny, tough-skinned red baya plum.  She skillfully tore back the with thick rind a deft three-clawed hand, and paused beside a towering golden fern, to offer the stolen fruit to him.  
It glistened tantalizingly; the dark purple-red flesh glowing like a precious jewel against the mottled blue of her palm. Brilliant ruby red juice oozed out of the plum and seeped between her fingers.

Baze remembers spending a long time just staring between Master Ona and the proffered treat, uncertain.

Baya plums were notoriously difficult to grow in the deserts of Jedha, and were usually a treat reserved for special occasions. They were normally to be eaten only once a year. Casually snacking on them was essentially unheard of.  
Especially on Jedha, this was no small gift.

Baze had honestly always had a special love for these ugly, prickly, little fruits; and he knew that this was a significant offering... But he just couldn’t find it in himself to say anything but ‘Thank you very much, Master Ona’, before solemnly taking it from her hand and slowly devouring the dark, sticky fruit.  

If Ona had been disappointed by his stoic reaction, she had given no sign of it.  She had simply peeled open a plum for herself and remarked on how well the cabbages seemed to be growing this year, as they plodded on.

* * *

 Master Ona is very old now - much too old for minding unruly children. She’d been just on the brink of stepping down back when Baze had come under her care, and he secretly likes to think that perhaps she held on just a little longer for his sake.

She lives quietly with the other elders in the inner ring of the temple these days, mostly meditating and napping as the elderly tend to do. He still visits her now and then, when he has a bit of leisure time. ….and not only because she always seems to somehow have yet another spiky, black-red plum waiting for him whenever he comes by - though that certainly helps.

A new Master, Master Nelwike, is the keeper of the younglings now. She's a pleasant, bubbly young Twilek - and from what he hears, she’s likeable enough, though she lacks Master Ona’s inner quiet.  
Master Nelwike matches the children’s energy more than she subdues it, and simply runs the mischief out of them by the day’s end. The younglings all seem to love her for it, and he supposes he can see why children would appreciate a guardian who plays with them…  but privately, Baze doesn’t think she’d have had all that much of an impact on him as a youngling.

Perhaps he’s just too old now, to appreciate her appeal.

* * *

Master To’un stops him on his way to the dormitories one cold wintery night, exhausted after a heavy training session. The sun has long since set over the steppes of the desert, taking all the heat of the day with it. Baze can see his breath misting in the chilly air and aches for the warmth of his bunk, only a few more hallways away.  
He stands barefoot on frigid stone, laced in slowly freezing sweat, wondering what would drive his Master to seek him out at this hour.  
Master To'un grins, reaching up to clap him on the shoulder, and says that Baze has been excelling wonderfully in his classes, it seems that his training exercises are no longer challenging enough. Would he perhaps like to start training with the older students from now on? Baze could probably give most of them a run for their money, young as he might be.

Baze would.  
He would very much.

And will he help the young ones with their lessons in the evenings? All of the older students are assigned a class of younger students to mentor, and if he will be training with them, he will need to take on this responsibility as well.

Baze…is reluctantly willing.

He’ll do it, of course, because it is the cost of advancement, and Master To’un thinks he should. _Someone_ has to teach the next generation how to fight. Besides, he ought to pay forward the same advantage he’s being offered.   
...That doesn’t mean has to be happy about it, though.

Baze does his best to emulate some of Ona’s seemingly endless patience, and accepts his new assignment with all the grace he can muster.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we meet the other half. *
> 
> *****************************

Chirrut Imwe is fourteen, and in the second year of his apprenticeship to become a monk. He’s still small and wiry,  with straight, close-cropped black hair, that sticks up in the front no matter how much he fusses with it. Chirrut is unusually sensitive to the Force for one so young and as-yet untrained, which is part of how he came to the temple in the first place.  
He has sharp, dark-brown eyes and a mind that ranges from wickedly clever to disconcertingly wise. Though it is a rare occasion indeed: when he can be prevailed upon to be serious, Chirrut can be surprisingly insightful ...especially for a child who stands just over five feet tall.

Chirrut doesn’t mind being short though; not really.  
Master Nelwike, who had charge of him until last year, always told him that he ought not to mind his small stature. He would grow, she had assured him, when it was time.  
When the Force willed it so, it would be.  
_“You have a great big heart, my little one,”_ she would often tell him, with her usual bright smile, as she tapped one pale green fingertip in the center of his chest. _“One day you will grow into it.”_

Chirrut already misses Master Nelwike’s earnest kindness and never-ending good cheer. She was always an eternally hopeful person. Every day was the the first day of the rest of her life, and she lived each day given to her with boundless enthusiasm.  
Some of the other Masters scoff at her ‘frivolous’ or ‘silly’ attitude, but Chirrut can’t help thinking that they’re missing the point.

His new Masters are good to him, and he’s drinking up anything they will teach him like a dying man in the desert… But they are also reserved and strict. They have little patience for a mischevious young apprentice, and Chirrut squirms at the constant solemnity.  
His easy charm and quick wit have saved him from anything more severe than a put-upon sigh and the occasional, ‘Not during class time, please, Apprentice Imwe,’ so far - but their exasperation is not lost on him.  
He can’t help wondering why being dull and cheerless is apparently a requirement for studying the incredible mysteries of the Force.

 

* * *

 

Chirrut came here as an orphan when he was very young, like most of the temple children. Unlike the others, though, he doesn’t really feel the loss.  
He supposes he would probably miss his family more if he knew anything about them… But he doesn’t - and he can’t see the value in dwelling on what he doesn’t have.  
There are too many wonderful things about his life now, for that.

In only a few years, he’s gone from pickpocketing and telling fortunes for whatever he could get, going hungry most nights, living on the streets, and sleeping in gutters, to spending his days studying _the Force_ \- the very fabric of the universe!... and if that were not enough, there are three guaranteed meals per day and a soft, warm place to sleep every night, into the bargain!  
He could not have dreamed of a better life than this one.

It seems highly ungrateful not to appreciate what he has, when it would have been so very easy to have had nothing instead. He just wishes he were allowed to be a little more excited about it, is all.

 

* * *

  
Chirrut is just entering his third year, when he and his classmates begin their first lessons under one of the more advanced warrior apprentices. They’ll be in the evening session - the very last slot on the schedule.

Here, they’ll learn to fight and to defend themselves and each other. Perhaps most interesting of all, in a few years, they’ll be taught to handle a light-bow, the preferred weapon of a Guardian.  This is the part that Chirrut looks forward to most.

His class is given their assignment on the day that their lessons are to begin, and at once, rumors begin to fly about their instructor. Chirrut tunes them out.  
He has studying to do, and time will show the truth of the situation soon enough.

Morning stretches into afternoon, and meditation techniques turn to kyber crystal energy manipulation, into chanting, until finally the day begins to wane and the evening arrives.  
The class dutifully threads their way, en masse, through winding hallways and sprawling courtyards, out to the temple’s training grounds.

There, they stand waiting, sweating in the lingering heat of the day.

They’re early, and their teacher hasn’t arrived yet.  As the sun slowly begins to descend toward the horizon, they mill around, awkwardly shuffling and trying to look more knowledgeable than they truly are.  
Underfoot, the densely packed sand begins to deform into whorls and ridges.

The apprentices have all heard stories and whispering about the boy who will be instructing them, and they gossip amongst themselves to pass the time. Most of the stories are intimidating, to say the least.

 

Bolheh - a grey-skinned boy, thick around the middle, and much more interested in scrolls and old holograms than battlefields - says that their instructor is a bad-tempered wookie with no sense of humor.

Talanis - a timid, pink faced little creature, with big, nervous, sable eyes - says that he’s a merciless trainer. He’ll make you do an exercise over and over until it’s just right, no matter how long it takes. She’s heard that he made an apprentice practice for two days straight once, because they couldn’t perform a kata properly.  
Gonni - a short, stubby-horned togruta with a lisp - whispers that this teacher made a whole class of apprentices cry last year.  


Chirrut listens to them idly, but he pays their chatter little mind. Gossip flows easily around here, and most of it is made-up nonsense. Only a fool takes the word of a whisperer over the observation of their own eyes and ears.  He’ll make up his _own_ mind, thank you very much.  
Knowing his classmates and their sources, Chirrut wouldn’t be surprised if their instructor were about as intimidating as an infant womp rat.  
For all the so-called information that flies around the temple, Chirrut would wager good money that barely a word of it is true.  
  
There’s an abrupt end to the whispering and a noticeable silence as their new instructor enters the arena from the other side. The boy strides purposefully, straight to the center of the sparring grounds, and stands there without a word, apparently sizing up what he’d been given to work with.

It would appear that Chirrut owes the gossipers an apology... They were surprisingly well informed.

The grim-faced young man who stands before them is absolutely massive for an apprentice - tall and thickly built. Most of the class barely clears his armpit.  
His face is stern and closed. Their teacher looks like he’d be having more fun spelunking into a sarlacc pit than standing here, waist-deep in tenderfoot student monks.

Chirrut idly wonders if this boy has ever once cracked a smile in his life.  
He doubts it.

He can even see where the ‘wookie’ idea comes from. Between a thick mane of hair falling in an unruly tumble down the boy’s broad back - with more threatening to escape the tightly bound plaits that drape across his shoulders - and the bristly beginnings of a beard on his chin... their new teacher looks almost…. _fluffy._  
If viewed from the right angle, he could easily pass as a huge furry beast - if you were the sort that spooks easily and aren’t all that observant.

Chirrut is fortunately not that sort.

“Welcome to your first lesson,” their instructor tells them, finally breaking the silence, as he takes up a wide stance and folds his arms over his chest. “I am Apprentice Malbus. I will be your trainer from now on.”  
Faint smoke-colored shadows begin to stretch across the sand at his feet as he huffs a muffled, put-upon sigh under his breath. From the look on his face, he’s not very impressed with his charges.  
“We’ll start with drills. Ten laps around the ring. No stopping. No exceptions. You will count from that post.” He points toward the far end of the arena. “Begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * In my mind, Chirrut was not born blind. He loses his sight later on.  
> _________________________________________________________________________


	4. Chapter 4

It takes ages longer than it should for all eight of the junior monks to finish their first drill. For a while, it looks like the little pink girl isn’t going to make it to the end at all and he seriously  considers letting her stop before she keels over. Eventually, though she straggles through the last round... trailing the last of her fellows by a solid ten minutes.   
It’s a sorry showing, even for new students.

Baze sighs hard under his breath and addresses the class.  
“Does anyone know how long that took?” He looms intently over his charges, “Anyone?”

“An eternity?” one of the students pipes up from the back, a cheeky grin on his face, though he’s still doubled-over his knees, catching his breath.  
 _Ugh_. He expects this from warrior students, but aren’t monks supposed to be studious and well-behaved?

“It might as well have been.” Baze glowers dolefully at them, but the upstart shows no sign of noticing.    
He returns his attention to the rest of the class. “Do you know how long it should have taken you?” 

“... Not… that long?” The togruta volunteers, timidly.

“Not. that. long.” Baze confirms sternly, sweeping his gaze over the lot of them. Most have the decency to look contrite, avoiding his eyes, but the smart-mouthed kid in the back doesn’t seem particularly impressed. Dark eyes, glittering with trouble, just stare placidly back.    
It’s going to be one of  _ those _ classes.  
“You lot took  triple the acceptable time. Do any of you know what that means?”

Nobody speaks.

“It means that we’re going to have to start at rock bottom, because if you can’t run a basic drill, you aren’t ready for anything else I have to teach you.” The students glance at each other unhappily. “Everyone on your feet.”  
They all slowly comply, much slower than he’d like, some still panting like overheated dogs.    
Once the lot of them are finally standing in a more or less straight line and all facing the same direction, he goes on.  
“Now, why did you fail this exercise?”

“Because we’re just bad runners?” one of the students mutters, not quite under his breath. He regrets it immediately when the full weight of Baze’s glare falls upon him. The boy’s slate-grey face turns an alarming shade of indigo over the few seconds of silence that follow, and Baze gives him a moment to let it settle in. Once the boy looks like he’d happily invert himself to escape the embarrassment, Baze moves on. 

“No. There is no such things as ‘good’ or ‘bad’ - not at this level. You failed because you simply throw yourselves at the task and hope for the best. That is no way to approach a challenge, and in a battle it will get you killed.” The little pink girl whimpers pitifully at this, but he chooses to ignore it. “You approach the challenge wrongly, and you fail for it.” He points to the trouble-maker in the back.  “You. What are you doing wrong?”

“Oh, probably a great many things.” the boy answers cheerfully.  “But in this case, I would say ‘not running fast’.”

Baze rolls his eyes.

“You run like you were out for a walk. This is not a stroll in the gardens. Move like death itself is on your heels, because one day, it may well be. Now if you fail, you can get up and try again. When your survival depends on your speed, there will be only succeed, or die.”  
More whimpering goes unacknowledged.  
“Run it again, and Force help you if your time does not improve.”


	5. Chapter 5

They run the drill another five times before their instructor finally feels satisfied that progress has been made.  When he lets them go for the night, it’s only with the admonishment that they’d better be ready to run the drill properly tomorrow night, or there will be hell to pay.

Chirrut has never been so exhausted in his entire life.    
Every muscle aches, and his feet feel three sizes too large, straining against the sides of his shoes for relief.   _ And _ , he examines himself with disatisfaction, he’s positively rancid from sweat. He imagines he must smell like a rotted bantha corpse…   


It’s just not fair. It really isn’t.     
It’s not as if Chirrut were lazy or just plain slow. He used to be able outrun pretty much anyone who frequented the NiJedha marketplace - at least, under the right circumstances...  But he’d always used alley ways and the constantly milling crowds in order to vanish back then. He’d only run until he had to disappear, and then spent the necessary time hiding until the coast was clear. It was a built-in rest that he is only now truly learning to appreciate.    
There were no long straight-aways in NiJedha’s twisting streets, no extended sprints to be made, then. Street living had required cunning and stealth - not endurance.  
Chirrut is a strong burst runner. He can sprint like the wind for a little while - but sprinting is no good for long distance, if you can’t keep it up.

He watches the class drifting wearily homeward with half an eye, then bends to gingerly rub some feeling back into his shins and aching feet. He’ll catch up.   
They probably want to moan and carry on for a little while longer anyway, and he’d be of little help with that.  
Talanis is limping a little, probably largely for effect, and at least a handful of the others are groaning piteously, clearly meant for their teacher’s ears. 

Honestly, it all strikes Chirrut as a bit overly dramatic - even as tired and foot-sore as they all are.   
They can’t possibly think it’s going to change the opinion of the sentient brick-wall that is their instructor. Isn’t this the same lot that were telling each other what an unfeeling monster of a boy they were to learn from, just a few hours ago?

Chirrut goes on stretching.  


He’ll catch up. 


	6. Chapter 6

The students’ pointed display of misery definitely fails to move Apprentice Malbus. 

He just shakes his shaggy head at the retreating class and heaves a resigned sigh.   
Chirrut hears something that sounds distinctly like a muttered “ _ Younglings _ ,” as the older boy fetches down a spindly, wear-burnished, old rake from the equipment shed, then sets to work sweeping down the rumpled sand of the arena floor.

If Malbus notices that one of the students is still meandering around the edge of the field like a jackass, stretching down every so often to touch their toes, it doesn’t appear to bother him.   
  
When the big stone doors that stand between the combat grounds and the temple proper have finally closed on the last of the pitiful moans of the class, a comfortable quiet falls over the pair of them - comfortably ignoring one another.  
Gradually, even the faint music of the night insects fades away.   
In this moment, there is only Chirrut and the night sky, the desert wind... And the rake diligently rasping back and forth over the dry gritty floor behind him.  
As he looks up, the night seems to lean in closer, somehow; sealing them off from the rest of the world. The darkness feels heavier than normal... Cloying and dense, like a curtain of thick black velvet pressing down from the sky.

  
Malbus doesn’t appear to notice that either. He works in absorbed, methodical silence, taming the ground beneath his feet.   
In that silence, the steady  _ skritch skritch _ of the rake’s tines in the sand creates hypnotic, almost meditative rhythm.    
Soon, uniform rows of sweep-lines begin to spiral their way out across the floor; progressing steadily to that same rhythmic  _ skritch skritch, skritch skritch _ .

Chirrut listens idly to the sound, but before long he begins to drift. He loses interest in his aching feet, as the rake scrapes its steady chant across the sand. The world begins to fade away.  
Dreamily, he stands there, listless and still. His arms droop limp and forgotten at his sides. He feels feverish and etherial. He’s disconnected from everything now, even his own body.

He’s floating.

There is a strange sort of serenity... of ritual, to this place - this moment. Like the pulse of drums, or the rise and fall of a monk’s chant, it flows over him.   
He lets the rhythm and the stillness wash him away until the air is humming, almost vibrating with living energy, and then-    
_   
_ _ There.   
_ There it is, when he closes his eyes. The soft, warm light of the Force; surrounding him and pulsing like a beating heart. It permeates the air and the ground beneath his feet; haloed brilliantly all around the two of them. Malbus is a distant grey figure, frozen in time, but it circles him too, twining around him like an affectionate cat.   
Chirrut turns in slowly in place, awed.   
They stand in the epicenter of a star, burning white-hot with the power of the Force. The radiant light it blazes with is like nothing he’s ever experienced.   
It is so powerful, so gentle... and so...  __ alive . 

For all the monks’ airy lectures about the power and majesty of the Force, he’d had no idea… How could he have possibly have? How could he possibly have understood this thing without feeling it for himself?    
There’s just no describing it.   
  
Chirrut has never sensed the Force so strongly before; not even at the height of his chants. Not even surrounded by the massive kyber points that line the meditation hall. Not even from the Masters themselves.    
It’s just … so…  _...beautiful.  
_ The light pulses warmly, invitingly - drawing him deeper. 

He reaches out instinctively, as if he might touch the energy with his bare hands - fingers grasping blindly for an unseen source.   
He can very nearly sense it now, it’s so close...    
Just a little more.  
It’s… it’s-

“- _ey_! HEY! Boy!  _ HEY _ ! Say something!” 

Chirrut snaps out of his reverie abruptly, feeling like he’s been slapped.   
The brilliant light is gone. 

He’s standing in semi-darkness on the edge of a half-raked circle of sand, eyes unfocused and head full of bantha fluff - in the midst of having his shoulders very roughly shaken by a near-panicked apprentice.   
It takes him a few moments to realize that it’s Instructor Malbus doing the shaking, and that the panic is very much directed at him.

“Are you alright?!” Malbus demands, searching his face. “Look at me - can you walk?”

“I-...” Chirrut still feels half drunk with the vision he’s just seen, and his tongue is heavy and sluggish, “...I’m…”    
_ Why can’t he  _ **_think_ ** _?   _ _   
_ Reality feels greyed out at the edges, as if he’s seeing spots from staring into the light too long. He shakes his head hard to clear it, and tries again.   
After a bit of effort, he forces “ __ I’m ...alright ” out of an uncooperative mouth.

Malbus does not look impressed by this.  
“Sit,” the older boy orders, planting his thick arm firmly under Chirrut’s and steering him to a nearby bench. When Chirrut doesn’t appear to be taking the hint, Malbus pushes his shoulders down until the boy finally drops, seated, onto the polished stone.  
Chirrut stays where he’s put, still trying to put his head back together. Snapping suddenly out of a trance that deep feels like a bit like being run down by a land-speeder.

Malbus gives him a deeply critical once-over, and frowns; clearly displeased with what he sees.    
“Why didn’t you tell me you were sick?”

_ Sick? What-  
_ "I’m… not… not sick.” Chirrut manages indignantly, as his wits finally begin to coalesce again. “I’m…fine.”

Malbus’s frown deepens. Big hands come to rest on Chirrut’s slender shoulders, and Malbus seems suddenly very weary. For the first time, he looks like the half-grown boy that he is.  
“You don’t need to lie. It’s not a crime to be sick. I know what you young ones say about me when you think I’m not listening - and half of it’s true,” He tilts his head, trying to get Chirrut’s unfocused eyes to settle on him, without success. “But I’m here to help you improve - not kill you. You won’t make any progress from an infirmary bed. You should’ve told me.” 

When Chirrut’s foggy brain takes a bit too long to come up with a reply to that, the older boy’s shoulders take on a vaguely dejected slump and he runs a hand distractedly through his wild hair.   
_ Guilt, _ Chirrut realizes suddenly. Their fearsome, humorless teacher feels terrible for pushing him too hard.

“But… but I  _ am _ fine,” Chirrut protests more strongly. “Really. I was just… er…  distracted... for a moment. But-”

“-A moment?” Malbus snorts derisively, interrupting,  “ _ A moment?! _ You were standing there slack-jawed at least ten minutes before I noticed, and another five before I began to worry.” 

_ Ah... _ That would help explain the disorientation, then…  


“Well, it’s -”

Malbus waves off the explanation.  “Little brother, you look like you’re going to faint, and you’re as clammy as death.” He crouches down before the bench, to put them at eye level. “You don’t have to be so afraid of me. I’m not going to bite your head off - and I’m certainly not going to fail you for being  _ ill _ , for Force’s sake.  I expect hard work, but I’m not trying to work you to  _ death _ .” He pauses for a long moment, then sighs,  scrubbing a hand up and down his face, “...I wouldn’t have made you run if I’d known.”

Chirrut looks into his instructor’s face, and know he has to say something. Much as Chirrut enjoys a good prank, Malbus is clearly castigating himself over this. It would be cruel to let him keep believing he’s done some kind of harm.    
Chirrut should reassure him. He should-  
“-Chirrut,” he hears himself say.

Malbus blinks and pulls back, looking puzzled.   
“...What?”

“My name is Chirrut. Chirrut Imwe. If we’re going to chat a while, we ought to get acquainted first.”

Malbus just stares at him a moment, trying to understand how they got to this point, before the faintest ghost of a smile quirks one side of his lips. He contemplates the strange small boy before him.  
“Baze,” he says at length. “Baze Malbus. ...And if you’re not feverish, then you’re insane.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Chirrut grins, color coming back into his cheeks. He feels like he’s finally regaining his bearings. “But it’s usually by someone who wants to choke me, not keep me conscious.”

“So you  _ are _ going to faint?” Baze’s big frame shifts, as if to intercept before he hits the ground, but Chirrut waves him away.

“No, no. I told you I’m fine, and I am.”  A sudden thought pushes through the last of the mental haze and now it’s Chirrut who’s grabbing Baze by the shoulders and shaking, though Baze doesn’t move much for all Chirrut’s frenetic energy. The bigger boy looks equal parts confused and concerned.   
Chirrut’s eyes are wide, searching him.  
“Tell me you felt it.”

Baze just stares back.  
“... Felt... what?”

“You… didn’t sense that? Just now? Right before you started tossing me around like a chew toy?”

Baze raises an eyebrow... and then, after a moment of hesitation, the back of one hand to Chirrut’s forehead.  
“Well, you don’t _feel_ feverish, but-”

Chirrut bats his hand away, starting intently up into Baze’s face.   
“You sensed nothing? Nothing at all?”

Baze heaves a sigh, and swipes his hand reflexively over his chin, settling back on his heels.  
“All I sensed was that there was a crazy smartass over here, who looked like he was having some kind of seizure, and that I should go swat him awake,” he says.   
When Chirrut scowls at this, Baze shrugs and pushes himself up to stand.  
“I’m not sure what you expect, Imwe… I’m not a monk. I just fight for the Force. You lot are the ones that commune with it. If someone is going be one with the Force, it’s not going to be me.” 

Chirrut studies him for a long quiet moment.  
“I’ll teach you,” he announces suddenly.

“I’m sorry?” Baze stares incredulously down at this slip of a monk that’s seriously complicating his evening. 

“I’ll teach you.” Chirrut repeats, hopping up to his feet. “You’re teaching me to fight, so it’s only fair. Besides, I’ll bet I’m a much better teacher than you are.”

Baze doesn’t rise to the bait.  
“You’re… going to teach me to… what exactly? Chant and sniff incense?” 

“I’m going to teach you to reach out and touch the Force, Brother Malbus,” Chirrut declares with heavily exaggerated dignity. “You will be one with the Force, and the Force will be with you.”

Baze rolls his eyes, picking up his abandoned rake, but there’s the vaguest hint of an upturn on the edge of his lips when turns back to the little monk, rake over one shoulder.   
He really shouldn’t be encouraging this crazy kid, but… somehow he can’t seem to help himself. It’s just too easy to be drawn in. Some equally crazy little part of himself wants to see what comes next.  
“Hmmm… so why do I feel like I have no choice in the matter?”

“That’s because you don’t.” Chirrut informs him cheerfully, clapping one hand on Baze’s bulky shoulder. “We can start right after your class, tomorrow night.”

Baze should say no. Obviously, he shouldn’t be encouraging this boy and his strange behavior. He  _ definitely _ shouldn’t be listening to a kid who’s clearly not right in the head. Chirrut is obviously crazy. He should report this boy to the infirmary healers. He should have him removed from the class. He should-  
“-Well, I suppose if I have no choice…” Baze shrugs amicably, getting back to raking out the last uneven bits of the arena floor, “-then we’ll start tomorrow night.”   
After a moment, he stops and looks up. One corner of his mouth is definitely tipping skyward.   
“-But try not to faint this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for now, but more will be coming as I finish chapters.  
> If you have thoughts, comments, or just grammar/sentence structure critiques, let me know. This story is a work in progress, and feedback is strongly encouraged :)


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